


Takeout

by vodkaanddebauchery



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 4.8k words of smut, Actual Power Bottom Steve Rogers, Banter during sex, Bucky is anti-socks, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Steve forgets to shower and it's a Thing apparently, Tenderness, there is no plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Better be careful.” </p><p>Steve stills. “Why’s that?” </p><p>“Nice boy like you, neighborhood like this? There could be bad men about,” Bucky says, dropping his tone even lower. And just so Steve doesn’t totally miss the hint, he rolls his hips against the small of Steve’s back. </p><p>(Bucky comes home from a mission, Steve is oblivious but not really (and has remarkable self-control), and there is some eating out.<br/>Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takeout

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, this is now the dirtiest thing I have ever written and I am absolutely thrilled about it. 
> 
> My soundtrack to writing this was pretty much an endless loop of The Arctic Monkeys and 11 Acorn Lane, the latter almost leading to the title of this fic being "I like it when you talk (and when you moan)" 
> 
> Special thank you to fig_eater for the speedy beta, the cheerleading, and for being my moviegoing buddy. Three times in a row.

Bucky’s been waiting in the apartment for the better part of five hours when he hears the scrape of a key in the lock. He rolls silently to his feet. All the lights are off, the only lighting is the soft orange glow from the street lights on the boulevard outside, and he has been supremely careful to enter the building without leaving any trace of his presence there. Everything was exactly as it was when its occupant left, save for the assassin getting cozy on the couch, watching the door. 

It’s not like he only has one shot, but he’d prefer to not have to make two attempts at this. 

The deadbolt clicks back, he hears the shuffle of grocery bags, the jingle of keys. He stealthily positions himself just behind the first corner, where the foyer opens to the living room and kitchen. Heavy footfalls - quieted by sneakers. Directly from the morning run to business, swinging back by the grocery store on his way home, then. Perfect.

That makes Bucky feel less bad about drinking the last of the orange juice. Seconds before he knows the lights will be flipped on, he strikes. 

Steve Rogers drops the grocery bags and falls like a flat of bricks, tucking his pelvis and preparing to roll before he recognizes the arm wrapped around his neck is metal and not actually trying to kill him, and relaxes as much as he can with his best friend’s legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Hi,” he says, sounding out of breath. 

“What’s a nice Catholic boy like you doing in a neighborhood like this?” Bucky says, low into Steve’s ear.

“I think the better question is why didn’t you tell me you were back today?” Steve says, reaching up to cup Bucky’s cheek in one big, warm hand.

Bucky frowns. Steve is oblivious, but tell him something he hasn’t known since 1930. Clearly, diversionary tactics are necessary. “Better be careful.” 

Steve stills. “Why’s that?” 

“Nice boy like you, neighborhood like this? There could be bad men about,” Bucky says, dropping his tone even lower. And just so Steve doesn’t totally miss the hint, he rolls his hips against the small of Steve’s back. 

Steve goes very still and very quiet. Bucky can hear his heart beating, can feel the heat creeping up his neck even between the barrier of their clothes.

After nursing Steve through chills and countless colds when they were young, a lifetime ago, it’s always a relief to know he’s constantly running warm. Bucky presses his lips to the back of Steve’s neck before he can help it, tucking his face into the junction between Steve’s shoulder and neck.

“You haven’t showered today,” he says pulling back, surprised in spite of himself and the game he’s trying to play. 

“No,” Steve says, shifting a little awkwardly, probably blushing for an entirely different reason now. “Didn’t have time.”

Bucky grins against his skin and says, low and hot, “That’s filthy, Rogers.” 

Steve stops his shifting and goes very still again. It doesn’t just give Bucky a window of opportunity, it throws the window open and loudly invites him inside. 

So he does the rational thing and tightens his grip on Steve’s waist with his thighs, rolling them both easily so he’s straddling Steve’s hips. He can’t help but grind down a little under the guise of settling in comfortably; Steve’s half-hard already and that delightful flush has taken over his cheeks and neck. Steve huffs out a little involuntary moan. 

Thirty-six days apart and Bucky is pretty sure Steve’s remarkable self-restraint and martyr complex mean he hasn’t gotten his rocks off since the morning Bucky left. Good God. 

“Not like you to be so careless with your hygiene, Rogers,” he says smugly, knowing full well that even in the dim light Steve can see how hard he is, straining eagerly against his SHIELD-issue trousers. “Wonder what everyone would say if they knew that their golden boy isn’t quite so clean-cut as he appears.”

He drops his hands to the hem of Steve’s T-shirt, tugging it up to expose Steve’s frankly unfair abdominals, the dip of his navel that never fails to make his leg twitch whenever Bucky drags his tongue around it. He rucks Steve’s shirt up to his collarbones and if he were in a different mood he’d just sit back and admire his friend, the way the muscles in his stomach quiver, how his nipples harden in the chilly air, how the whole of him inspires Bucky to protect and bite and kiss and guard, just like he’s always done. 

He’s not in the mood for that. Instead, Bucky leans down and laves his tongue across one fit pectoral, darting down to flick across a nipple and tastes clean sweat, because only Steve fucking Rogers would taste so clean after running a marathon at the start of his day. 

“Got an idea,” he murmurs, licking a wet trail across to Steve’s other nipple, which he treats with a gentle nip, making Steve valiantly attempt to hold off a full-body shudder. “It’s a good idea.”

“What -” Steve begins, but interrupts himself with a barely-suppressed sigh of loss when Bucky sits back up and rolls off of him, trusting now that he’s got Steve right where he wants him, he’s not gonna run. 

“Pants off, Rogers,” Bucky says. “On second thought, everything off. I need to see you.” 

Steve kicks his running shoes off and shucks his shorts first, sitting halfway up to pull his T-shirt the rest of the way off last. While he’s doing that Bucky takes care of the socks, peeling them off one at a time, because when he said everything off he fucking meant it and there is nothing sillier than wearing athletic-brand socks during sex. 

He’s down to his boxer-briefs, the outline of him lovely and big and tantalizingly hard against the dark fabric, when Steve suddenly goes all bashful. He fiddles with the waistband, and begins to say something - and stops himself short, blushing again. 

Bucky rubs a thumb along the elastic, along Steve’s skin. He looks at him, questioning - if Steve didn’t like this they would have been done before they even started, and it’s not like he’s a prude when it counts -

“’m fine,” Steve says. “Just missed you a lot, Buck.” 

“Missed you too,” Bucky says softly, letting the low purr drop out of his voice long enough to catch Steve’s eye and kiss him for the first time in thirty-six aggravating days, thirty-seven if you count crossing the international dateline, and it’s perfect and hot, just the right amount of tongue, and Bucky will never, ever get tired of kissing Steve Rogers. “Still wanna see how filthy you are, though.” 

Steve plants a sneaky kiss at the corner of his mouth and says wryly, “I don’t know why you think I’m filthy for not showering -”

“Then I can make you filthy,” Bucky suggests, which might even be a better plan. He’s flexible. “Would you like that, darlin’?” 

The way Steve threads his hands in his hair and kisses him hard and needy is answer enough. Bucky smiles against Steve’s lips, hands reaching around and behind to rest on the elastic of Steve’s underwear briefly, before sliding down and squeezing firmly. Steve moans into his mouth, hips jutting blindly forward then back against Bucky’s grip. 

Bucky works the elastic of Steve’s boxer-briefs down over the swell of his ass, goes back in with both hands for a moment to squeeze and knead, because if Steve’s abs were unfair, his ass is a gift from God Himself, signed, sealed, and delivered express to Bucky. 

Steve makes a little cut-off cry when the fingers of Bucky’s flesh-and-bone hand linger at the curve of him, then slip down between his cheeks, stroking and lingering on that strip of flesh. His head falls against Bucky’s shoulder, the heat of pleasure and embarrassment rolling off of him in waves, his breath catching when Bucky’s finger strokes over his hole. 

For all that Steve Rogers is not a prude, he still gets ridiculously wound up, if bashful, whenever Bucky’s fingers or mouth are anywhere near that particular spot of real estate. Bucky acknowledges that he may not be as good a man as Steve, because once he figured that out he exploits it as often as possible. 

“Like that?” Bucky asks, voice gone low and dirty again. Steve nods against his shoulder, so Bucky does it again, his finger catching. He returns to stroking, rubs long and slow up and down Steve’s side with his other hand. He turns to kiss the top of Steve’s head just because he can, and says, “God, you feel amazing, gonna be so good for me.” 

The noise Steve makes is low and thready with need. It's out of his throat before he seems to realize, and that's the other thing about Steve Rogers that only Bucky knows for certain (and certain segments of the internet guess at): Bucky's smart mouth has limitless capacity for filth, and Steve loves it. He just won't say as much.  
Bucky leans in for another kiss before withdrawing his hands, sitting back and seeing how dark Steve's eyes are, how his throat works. "Hands and knees," he says. "Let me see you." 

Compliantly Steve shuffles onto his hands and knees, his pelvis tipped back and up, his cock flushed and heavy, silky when Bucky reaches his flesh and bone hand beneath for a brief stroke even as he's moving between Steve's legs, nudging his thighs further apart with his knees.  
That must clue Steve in somehow, because his head drops low to his folded arms, he shudders and _moans_ when Bucky's hands grasp and spread him. 

"Jesus Christ, look at you," he says, husky. He leans in to kiss the small of Steve's back, the little dimples just above his ass, tasting clean sweat and skin when he swipes his tongue across them. "You're gonna be a wreck by the time I'm done with you," he murmurs against Steve's skin, before kissing one smooth, firm cheek. "Gonna be so filthy you'll never be completely clean again." 

Steve whines at the press of his lips, so close and so far from where he wants them. "Yes, darlin', can I help you with something?" Bucky asks, smiling against the swell of Steve's ass.  
"You - you know," Steve pants, thrusting back and up, so that Bucky can't resist kissing him again. "You can stop running your mouth off and actually deliver, otherwise I'm gonna start thinking you're all talk." 

Bucky raises an eyebrow even as he can't stop the wicked grin that spreads slow across his face. "Oh yeah?"  
Steve looks over his shoulder at him. His gaze is electric. "Yeah, I've always known you were a big-talking punk who couldn't - oh, my _gosh_ ," he breathes, because Bucky's finally dropped his head and is sweeping his tongue up to his tailbone, leaving a shiny trail of spit. "Buck -"

He does it again and Steve shuts up. Good. 

For a few minutes all Bucky does is lave around his hole, not even bothering to hide how he's savoring the taste and the little noises Steve makes when he circles with the tip of his tongue around his rim. Momentarily he draws back, collecting the moisture in his mouth for a second because damn, it really does tend to dry a fella out, and delves right back in just as Steve makes an impatient noise of loss and rolls his hips back enticingly. 

He keeps on licking firmly around and just barely teases in, pulling away when Steve cants his hips back and tries for anything more, further pressure. With his metal hand he keeps Steve spread; with his other he wraps around Steve's cock and finds, with delight, that Steve's already leaking steadily, dripping precome all over the floor. That makes him back off, because fuck, he wants to appreciate just how hot that is. 

"Just look at you _now_ , Rogers, you're a mess already," he says, unable to keep the awe out of his tone. Steve thrusts into the slick pressure of his right fist, head dropped to rest on his crossed arms. 

Still, he has the wherewithal laughs a little. "Don't think I can look at me," he says, glancing back at Bucky. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown and his mouth has gone red from worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. It's a good look on him. "Wrong angle." 

"Then should I describe what I'm seeing to you?" Bucky asks, grinning. "Or I can get my phone, take a picture -"

Steve drops his head again, groaning. "James Barnes, if you get up right now, I will find a way to make you pay for it and _it will not be fun_." 

"I've no doubt you have it in you, Captain, but allow me to say I'll believe it when I see it." 

"You're talking again," Steve says, maybe a little testily. Bucky shifts his grip around Steve's dick and treats him to a long, slow stroke that makes him fall quiet again, mouth dropping open and eyes shutting. 

"Maybe if you just told me what you wanted," Bucky says. Okay, maybe he's a little bit of a jerk, because he's still holding Steve open as he strokes him, hard enough to be a promise, but light enough to where he can't get off. 

"Don't make me say it - " 

"That's half the fun, darlin'." The head of Steve's cock is wet with precome under his palm, his skin hot and silky and dripping so much Bucky wishes that flipping Steve over and getting his cock in his mouth was part of tonight's agenda. Maybe later, much later.

For now, let it never be said James Buchanan Barnes isn't thoughtful, because he takes mercy on his friend and dutifully goes back to eating him out. The saliva trail he left before has started to cool while they were bantering back and forth; he warms him up again before pressing in with the tip of his tongue. Steve's body yields to the gentle pressure, open and willing, and Steve shudders as Bucky's tongue slips in briefly before licking out. 

This isn't a regular thing for them, but it's something they've done enough times before that Bucky knows what Steve likes and what leaves him cold. He knows if he spends too long fucking Steve with his tongue, Steve will come all over himself (not like that's a bad thing, in his book), and then he'll be too sensitive to any further stimulation, will have to be worked back up gradually. Steve likes Bucky's fingers, both metal and flesh; neither have brought up how they'd feel about Bucky eating Steve out after he's fucked him, and he's pretty sure he wants to figure out where Steve stands on that soon. 

He draws back to both admire his handiwork and start wetting the fingers of his right hand in his mouth. Shiny with spit and already looking looser, if slightly swollen from Bucky's attentions. With a hint of pride Bucky also observes that he's managed to raise a soft red burn from his stubble on the tender flesh, even though it'll be gone before Steve can even register it. When his finger's slick enough he presses it in and Steve just opens for him, so sweet and hot and still tight enough that his eyes almost roll into the back of his head. 

Steve lets out a shaky breath that Bucky didn't know he'd been holding in. He stills his motions, letting him adjust. "Okay?" he asks.  
"Okay," Steve confirms, and huffs a little laugh. "More than okay - oh, _jeez_ ," he gasps, because Bucky's tongue has joined his finger and it's enough to punch a drawn-out moan from him. 

He fucks Steve with both, working the tip of his tongue in alongside his middle finger, pressing and rubbing as deep inside as he can reach. He only backs off long enough to slip his index finger in as well, hearing Steve groan in appreciation of the added girth. With his tongue and two fingers he opens Steve up, working slow to dissolve any tightness or tension that comes of thirty-six days, _thirty-six fucking days_ , since they last did this. Steve's already sloppy with Bucky's spit, opening up under Bucky's fingers and the wordless croons and murmurs of praise against his skin. 

Then, just to be an asshole, Bucky sits back and crooks his fingers, searching and pressing, and Steve jolts like he's been electrocuted. 

" _Christ!_ " 

"No, the name's Barnes," Bucky says. It's an indication of how far gone Steve is that he doesn't attempt to lift his head and swat back at him, just exhales shakily when Bucky's fingertip grazes lightly over his prostate again, hips jutting forward and away from the onslaught of stimulation. 

"Not gonna last long if you keep - oh, if you keep doing that," Steve says, and twitches away as Bucky strokes across that spot again. "'m ready, Buck, _please_ , please." 

With his metal hand Bucky rubs small circles at the small of Steve's back and hips, and he's about to open his mouth and say something like, _You sure about that?_ Even now, even with their profound knowledge of each other's bodies, even with his strength and stamina and his willingness to push past his own limits, Steve can be kind of an idiot about those limits if Bucky's not watching out for him.

There's no longer any danger of Bucky breaking him in half if he so much as breathes on him any more, but still, old habits are apparently really hard to kill. 

"You're not gonna break me," Steve mumbles irately, still more astute half-fucked out of his mind than Bucky gives him credit for. "Get in me, Barnes, I'm tired of waiting." 

"That an order, Captain?" Bucky withdraws his fingers and, just because he can, kisses Steve's flank softly. 

"Yeah it is, on the double." He can hear the smile in Steve's voice, even thought he's coming across all needy and impatient. "Why aren't you in me yet?" 

"Give me a sec, not gonna fuck you without something other than damn spit." Tearing himself away from Steve even for twenty seconds is tantamount to ripping his own eyelids off, but he's up and in the kitchen cabinet and grabbing whichever bottle of whatever fancy olive oil Steve insists is good for their hearts is closest at hand. He plunks it down next to the pile of Steve's clothes and pops the cap with his left hand, lubes up his right. 

"That was the expensive one," Steve grouses, glimpsing the label. In the middle of slicking himself up, Bucky pauses.  
"They're _all_ the expensive one, Steve," he shoots back, and god, he has to grip himself tight and try to breathe through it, staving off the flood of sensation while he's lining himself up.  
Steve makes an ignoble noise that shoots straight through him when he feels the slick heat of Bucky's head brush wetly against him, and for a second Bucky can only marvel that he's the only person who gets to hear this, and it's been over a month since he has, Christ, until Steve rocks his hips and shoves himself back onto his boyfriend's cock. 

They both moan with the surprise of it more than the sensation, and once Bucky's watched the head disappear into Steve's body he can't stop moving, one long, steady thrust in. He pushes forward until he's bottomed out, hips flush against Steve's ass, surrounded completely by yielding heat and firm pressure. His hips twitch, he feels himself sweat with the effort of not throwing abandon out the window and starting to fuck Steve six ways till Sunday. It's a gargantuan effort but the two functioning brain cells still piloting this ship are telling him to hold off, to let Steve relax, because even with the loosening up it's been a while since Steve's had something up in his business in over a month. 

Beneath him Steve's wide shoulders heave with his breath, his skin smooth and slick with sweat. For a second, though, Bucky is snapped out of his brainless admiration, ever-conscious of Steve's breathing. Steve is struggling to catch his breath and it's stupid, Bucky knows the asthma is gone, but he runs his hands up the length of his spine anyway. "Everything okay, darlin?"  
When he speaks, it seems like an effort. Bucky has to hold the cold panic at bay; it belongs to another lifetime. "Yeah," Steve says, and then his shoulders shake in a laugh. "Been a little longer since we've done this than I want to think about, I'm just a little -"  
"Overwhelmed?" Bucky supplies. Leaning down to mouth at the small of his back, he murmurs against his skin, "Me too, Stevie, me too, just tell me when you're good to go and I'll - you're so good for me, I'll be good to you too."  
"You're always so good to me," Steve says, soft and hot, in that unerring way he has of stripping truths open in the middle of otherwise really distractingly sexy moments. "Just give me a moment, it's just been a while."

Bucky can do that. In the interim he runs his palms up from Steve's thighs to his back, all the way up to his shoulders and back down again, letting him adjust. But he can't help but tease, "You can't give me shit about not fucking you on demand when you have to take this long - Jesus, Rogers, you haven't done anything since I left, have you?" The realization hits him like a sucker punch to the libido. He can't help but circle his hips ever so slightly. "Why didn't you?"  
"Wanted - wanted to wait until you got back, oh - oh _hell_ ," Steve replies, and while Bucky is touched, he really is because Steve is the biggest sappy dope he's ever known, if Steve isn't cursing and blaspheming while Bucky's balls-deep in him, then he's not doing his job right.

He strokes his hand up Steve's thigh, feeling the taut clench of muscle under his sweaty skin. "You're amazing," he says, simple fact rather than breathless compliment. He grips Steve's hip with his flesh hand, hoping that he leaves bruises even though they'll be faded within minutes. "Ready?"

Wordlessly, Steve nods beneath him. It's all the permission he needs. He almost, almost gasps, drawing out so he can cant his hips to just the right angle and slide back in; it's so hot and slick and almost too much after so long apart. Within minutes Steve's meeting every thrust, finding their usual rhythm in no time at all, Bucky rolling his hips to try and get as deep as he possibly can, feeling rather shamelessly greedy in his desire. 

Steve's not a screamer, not even much of a talker during sex. He never has been. Everything with him is requests, always has been, for as long as Bucky can remember.  
"Faster," he says, not the least bit commanding yet Bucky obeys, snapping his hips forward and feeling Steve's groan at the pickup of pace reverberate through his chest. Bucky adjusts his grip on his hips and tries to keep fucking into him without getting too frantic or sloppy. The new grip allows for him to angle in and keep his pace; he knows he's hit paydirt when Steve makes a sharp noise and shoves back against him. 

"Oh, God, there, yes" Steve says, and Bucky is powerless to do anything else but fuck against that spot, watching the sweat collect in the small of Steve's back. 

He was right, he should have given him time to wind down some, because as Bucky's sliding hot and fast back into him on a downstroke, Steve's suddenly gasping, brow wrinkled and mouth open, making Bucky's favourite face, the one he makes right before he comes his brains out. He does exactly that, spilling, untouched, coming so hard Bucky can hear it on the floor, and jesus that sound and Steve's ragged gasps are going to be enough to keep him going through the next month-long mission.

Easing the both of them down while avoiding the streaks of come, Bucky fusses with Steve this way and that, until he's as comfortable as he'll be able to get on the cool floor. Steve's legs fall open for him, and he smiles a little flirtatiously at Bucky, the brazen hussy. Bucky's hips fall between Steve's thighs and he kisses him while he pushes back in again, loving the little half-smothered inhale Steve makes against his lips. 

The dirty secret is, for as much as Bucky likes to talk up his lady-killing prowess from way back when, he's completely powerless when his best friend is looking into his eyes while they're fucking, and when Steve smirks at him and clenches around him his hips stutter in a way that makes him feel most assuredly not like a stud. He has to concentrate on keeping his shit together, but then Steve does it _again_ , and Bucky drops his head from mouthing along Steve's jaw to his shoulder. 

"You okay there, soldier?" Steve asks, breathless in a way that makes Bucky positive he's teasing him. He rolls his hips against Bucky's and yeah, it's been over a month, he's sure that excuses him from any embarrassing lapse of control. 

"Ngh," Bucky Barnes, Super Stud, says eloquently against his shoulder. Steve smiles at that, tangles a hand in his hair and drags him up for another kiss, raking his short nails down Bucky's unscarred shoulder and that's what does it; his hips snap and he's fucking Steve relentlessly through his orgasm, almost dizzy with intensity.

Through it all Steve's kissing him until he can't breathe, losing more and more finesse as Bucky winds down, until they're forehead to forehead, kissing like two dumb teenagers in the back of a car. 

Bucky groans as he pulls out, feeling Steve twitch around him, sensitive and sticky and gorgeous. Sweat's cooling rapidly on his skin and his body, already tired from international travel and healing from hard-earned bruises, are starting to groan with the entirely different ache that comes with an energetic fuck.

"Okay, I take back any disparaging remarks I made about your mouth," says Steve, smiling at him a little muzzily.  
"Don't make fun of me, you know you love it."  
"I do, but I wish you'd brush your teeth before you kissed me, considering where it's been." Steve manages to look remarkably prissy for a man who's just had - well, all of that happen to him.  
"Shower first and then we'll talk, punk."  
"That's filthy, Barnes," says Steve, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth. That makes Bucky groan again, for entirely different reasons, but he leans in and kisses the side of his mouth again anyway.

Then Steve gets up and immediately springs for the shower, kicking aside their scattered clothes in the hall on his way to the bedroom. The slight awkward roll to his gait and the sight of his bare ass are more than a little distracting, and Bucky isn't ready to even contemplate round two, but he appreciates the view all the same.

He pulls himself together long enough to call in a huge order of Thai to be delivered to them; he even manages to clean up the mess they've made and put away the groceries before following Steve into their bathroom. 

Bucky brushes his teeth and even gargles with mouthwash, positive that'll assuage any objections Steve may make about his mouth, before sliding under the hot water with Steve, and loves how Steve kisses him with minty, tingly, new tenderness under the spray of the showerhead. There's no rush, no urgency, just the wet press of lips and fingers relearning skin after weeks apart. 

"Welcome home." Steve kisses the top of his head before spoiling him by washing his hair. Only narrowly does Bucky manage to avoid initiating round two by remembering they've got food coming, and reluctantly drags his weary carcass out from the bath after Steve is done washing his back. 

They sprawl on the couch in pajama pants, legs tangled, eating directly from the takeout cartons. After dinner Steve tastes like coconut sticky rice when they kiss and there is definitely, definitely going to be a round two, but right now there's no rush. There's only Steve's mouth tasting sweet, his thumbs sweeping across Bucky's mouth, his cheekbones, pressing back behind his ears; there's the click of the thermostat kicking on and the streetlights outside, and Bucky doesn't think he's ever been more glad to have a home to come back to.


End file.
